


Keychard 4 Eva

by saltedpin



Category: 2PM, K-pop, Rammstein, SHINee
Genre: Crack, M/M, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/pseuds/saltedpin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Key is having man problems. Who can help him? Not Wooyoung and Schneider, that's for sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keychard 4 Eva

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabbit_habits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_habits/gifts).



> Gentle parody of a bunch of tropes in k-pop and Rammstein fics. No offence!
> 
> WARNING: Comedy German accents.
> 
> This is a present for rabbit_habits, who is really the only person who should be interested in reading such a crossover :)

As if from Hell’s heart, Key stabbed at his bowl of Pillsbury Cake Mix.

He hadn’t actually intended to eat it, at first – just to make it, then look at it before throwing it in the bin. Maybe mould it into the shape of Richard Kruspe’s stupid face before hurling it from a balcony. Spoon it into Richard’s completely tasteless purple velvet slippers before lovingly laying them out in the hallway, just waiting for when he got home from an apparently long day of being photographed in restaurants with blonde whores whose disgusting rainbow spandex halter tops could barely contain what their mothers (and a cheap plastic surgeon) had given them.

Key sniffed delicately, kicking at the gossip magazine that lay on the floor where he had thrown it, screeching, earlier in the afternoon. He took another mouthful of cake mix. Well, if he was all fat and bloated in the morning, Richard would have no one to blame but himself. He wouldn’t fit into any of the clothes he had bought him any more. Key thought maliciously that that had probably been Richard’s plan all along – force him to eat in order to fatten him up so they were the same pant size, then steal all of the lovely shiny things Key owned. True, they were mostly things that Richard had purchased for him, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t had to work for them, dammit.

Key was just beginning to think about cheering himself up by going to his closet and rolling around on all his D&G jackets when the phone began to ring. At first, he contemplated not answering. Then he realised it would probably be someone he could complain to on the other end.

Tilting his pinky finger delicately, he lifted the receiver. “Yes?” he said, with just enough of a sob to make it sound like he didn’t want the other person to know he had been crying.

Obviously the person on the other end had no such compunction about social niceties. Key rolled his eyes as he heard a muffled sniffle drift down the line to him.

“Key? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” Key almost snapped, before remembering he was supposed to be upset. Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “Wooyoung?

He was answered with another tiny sniffle. Key released his nose and looked to the Heavens, wondering what he had done to deserve this. Wasn’t it enough that his dreadful German boyfriend was cavorting with prostitutes in full view of the public eye? Wasn’t it enough that earlier in the week, Jonghyun had made off with the Burberry cowprint cape Richard had bought him? (to be fair, Key thought, though his mind rebelled against the idea, Jonghyun _had_ given it back after Key asked him if he was planning to use it as a tissue)

No, thought Key bitterly, apparently none of that was enough, and now the universe was foisting people upon him who thought they were his friends just because he was occasionally forced to pretend to kiss them on the television.

Setting his annoyance to one side for the moment, Key did his best to sound concerned. “Wooyoung, are you crying?”

“ _NO_ ,” came Wooyoung’s defensive voice down the telephone. Apparently Key’s eyebrow arched so sharply that it was audible, because after a moment Wooyoung sniffled and then admitted, “A little bit.”

Key sighed. “Is this about what’s-his-name again?”

“His _name_ is Nichkhun,” Wooyoung said hotly. “You _know_ that.”

Key pursed his lips. “Yes. Fine. Nichkhun, the amazing Thai prince. What is it this time?”

Wooyoung gulped as if readying himself to reveal some horrifying secret. “T-today, while we were filming, he- he _winked_ at Yoona.”

Key waited. When there didn’t seem to be any more information forthcoming, he said, “So?”

“ _So_?” asked Wooyoung incredulously. “How could he _do_ that when he knows- he knows how much it hurts me?”

“Did the director ask him to do it?” asked Key.

“Yes,” said Wooyoung.

“Did Nichkhun suggest winking at Yoona?”

“No,” said Wooyoung.

“Did he fuck her afterwards?”

Key guessed from the outraged splutter that came careening down the phone line that the answer was no. “So what exactly, then, is your problem?”

There was a moment of silence, before Wooyoung let loose with a full-throated wail. “Don’t you see, Key? Khunnie is so beautiful and amazing, and he’s from _Thailand_ , he’s a Thai _prince_ , so how could he ever love me? I know he’s just looking for a way to dump me without hurting my feelings, because he’s so wonderful like that, and – and – “

Wooyong’s monologue was cut off by a loud crash. Bringing the phone back to his mouth from where he had extended it to arm’s length at the beginning of Wooyoung’s hysterics, Key said, “Wooyoung?”

No answer. Key rolled his eyes. Obviously, the cretin had fainted again.

***

Four hours later, Key arrived at Wooyoung’s house. It was actually only ten minutes’ walk down the road from him, but it had taken him a while to find someone to would drive him there. He had eventually had to call a taxi – and then it had taken a good half hour to lay down all the plastic sheets he needed before he could sit on the seats. When they arrived, he realised he didn’t have any cash to pay the driver with, so had just given him the Rolex Richard had bought him last week. Oh well. There was more where that came from, and Key had found the watch ticked too loudly and jangled his delicate nerves, anyway.

Taking off one of his gloves, Key rapped on the front door. Assuming that Wooyoung was still passed out cold on the kitchen floor, he wasn’t sure who he had been expecting to answer, but it hadn’t been the drummer from Richard’s odious band, whatever they were called.

The only reason Key had any idea who he was to be honest was because Richard was always complaining that, instead of pining after _him_ , the drummer spent all his time flirting obviously with the _other_ guitarist. Who, according to Richard, was short and didn’t even moisturise.

There was a few moments of silence. Key decided that the man’s speechlessness was due to the combination of awe and lust he must be feeling at the sight of his Jeremy Scott French fry hoodie and shiny blue lamé pants. He cleared his throat slightly and tried to peer around him into the gloom of the 2PM dorm beyond.

“Excuse me,” Key said in English very slowly and carefully, waving his arms for emphasis, “but are you aware of a person called Wooyoung? Is Wooyoung in this… well, I suppose you could call it a house?”

For a moment, the drummer continued to look blank. Then comprehension dawned. “Vooyoung?” he said. “Ja, Vooyoung ist hier. Ve are shaving each ozer’s armpits.”

Key had to lean against the doorframe. Upon what brink of Hell was he standing?

“You should come in. Vooyoung vas telling me you are also haffing ze man pwoblems.” The drummer stood back from the doorway and motioned for Key to follow him.

Steeling himself, Key stepped over the threshold. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom: in the middle of the loungeroom he could see what appeared to be an assembly of cardboard boxes and blankets, constructed around a large-screen television. Banana peels and empty packets of dried mango littered the floor.

Beyond that, the kitchen was a wasteland of chicken leftovers and bowls containing the remnants of ice cream. Key’s nose crumpled in distaste before he quickly re-schooled his features, reminding himself that Richard always stole his SME-supplied Botox and he couldn’t afford to make too many facial expressions on his own time.

He was just about to say that he must have had the wrong ‘Vooyoung’ and leave, when Wooyoung himself appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Key!” he said. “When you didn’t come over I thought you must have gone to buy more cake mix.”

Key narrowed his eyes, but Wooyoung’s face was innocently blank.

“That’s why I invited Schneider over. Anyway,” Wooyoung continued, “I made you some. It’s your favourite. Pillsbury.”

Key was about to answer disdainfully that he did not eat cake mix and anyone who said he did was a filthy liar, but then Wooyoung held out the bowl he was holding in his hands. Key sniffed. Chocolate. His _favourite_.

Involuntarily, he felt his mouth began to water and he thought wistfully of the half-finished bowl he had abandoned in order to come and attend to this half-wit and his idiotic drummer friend. It would take at least half an hour for another taxi to arrive.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I suppose I can stay for a little while.”

***

“… so zen after _zat_ he sits zere and plays Nintendo for four and half hours, zrows the controller across ze woom when he dies, and zen tries to say I distwacted him. As if he had even _looked_ at me since he got home!” Schneider pouted. “Zen after all _zat_ he acts like I’m just going to let him kiss me on the mouth or somezing, ven ve all know zat you don’t give zat kind of zing up to just anyvone. It’s too _personal_ , and I am too mysterious for zat.”

Key made a sympathetic noise while wishing that Schneider was being a bit more mysterious right now, but then Wooyoung re-entered with the cucumber slices.

“Oh!” he said as he sat down next to Key, “tell Key how you and Paul started going out. I’m sure he’d love to hear it.”

Key looked furiously in Wooyoung’s direction, but Wooyoung just leaned over and proceeded to place two of the cucumber slices over Key’s eyes. Key wondered how much permanent damage shoving them into his ears might do.

“Oh, ja,” Schneider said. “Vell, ve alvays hated each ozer and had ze fighting all ze time, and zen all our bandmates vere like, “Just fuck each ozer already!” and zen magically ve realised zat ve didn’t hate each ozer, ve loved each ozer. Paul said he had been trying to send me signals for monzs by keeping putting ‘buttfucking’ into ze box of forbidden song topics, so yeah.” Schneider took a thoughtful sip of his drink, his face masque cracking slightly around his mouth. “Funny how zese zings happen.”

Behind the cucumber, Key rolled his eyes. He had finished the cake mix and now just wanted to go home, especially seeing as neither Wooyoung nor Schneider had even _asked_ him about Richard.

Next to him, Wooyound sighed. “So romantic,” he said. “I wish Nichkhun would do something like that, but all he does is leave post-its with Paulo Coelho quotes on them all over my room.” Wooyoung was silent for a moment. “Do you think that means something?”

“That he likes Paulo Coelho?” Key ventured. He imagined he could feel a stabbing sensation from the venomous look Wooyoung shot him.

“What about you, Key? How’s _your_ love life?” Wooyoung asked, his tone acidic.

Key pursed his lips. He allowed a single crystalline tear to roll out from beneath one of his cucumber slices. “I think Richard is cheating on me,” he said in a whisper.

“Pwobably,” Schneider said helpfully. “He _is_ an asshole.”

Key hissed, sitting up. His cucumber slices tumbled from his face. “You’re just saying that because you’re _jealous_ because your boyfriend has the worst haircut in the whole world and his skin is so leathery you’re worried someone will come along and make a chair out of him,” he said.

Schneider blinked. “Ja, I tell him zat all ze time,” he said.

Key fumed. Was nothing getting through to this moron? Wasn’t he _ashamed_ of his boyfriend’s patent lack of a decent skincare routine? He thought for a moment of Richard’s two-tone sharkskin jacket, his hair gelled so tightly Key had almost taken his eye out on it once, his customary morning greeting – “ _DID YOU USE MY GOOD HAND CREAM???_ ” – Oh, how Key missed him! Sitting here listening to these two idiots whine had made him appreciate Richard all the more. How could he have been so blind?

Standing, Key dramatically hurled the cucumber slices into Wooyoung’s bowl of ice cream. Ignoring the ensuing shriek of outrage, he stormed from the house. His rage sustained him the entire ten minutes it took him to walk back to the rented villa he shared with Richard. He let out a small squeal of delight as he saw Richard’s baby pink convertible parked in the driveway.

“Oh, zere you are, babe,” Richard said as Key bounded through the doorway. “I got you somezing.”

Key squealed as Richard held out the six or seven garment bags from Hermès and Dior, and boxes from Bulgari and Blancpain. Throwing his arms around him, Key didn’t even care when he saw the lacy pink knickers with a phone number written on them sticking out of Richard’s back pocket.

The end.


End file.
